


Stomach Flus and Movie References

by Oshii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: College, College | University Student Dean Winchester, College | University Student Sam Winchester, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Season/Series 01, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic, Undercover, Vomiting, Young Winchesters (Supernatural), casefic, early seasons spn, stomach flu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24565909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/pseuds/Oshii
Summary: Set in 2006, the Winchesters have to go undercover as students at a prestigious liberal arts college in upstate Connecticut to investigate the death and spiritual unrest of a grad student allegedly (and violently) haunting the campus library. Problem is, the only thing flying around campus more than projectile library books? A good old-fashioned, close-quarters stomach flu. Sick!Dean, puking, H/C, mild casefic, might become multi-chaptered, who knows.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	Stomach Flus and Movie References

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked:
> 
> Ok so this might be too weird but what about a fic set in like the early seasons where sam and dean have to pretend to be college students and dean ends up getting a bad stomach flu but sam just thinks dean is hungoer from the partying they did to keep up their cover
> 
> Originally published June 6, 2020.

**No copyright infringement intended. Any similarities to actual places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional.**

  
_Upstate Connecticut, 2006_

_Welp_ , thought Sam as he shifted his weight tediously from one foot to the other, staring above several heads all standing in line before him at the on-campus CVS, _at least it’s not Stanford._

A week ago, Bobby had called Sam and Dean in their Louisville motel room and told them about a suspected poltergeist terrorizing the graduate wing of the Eckelberg College of Liberal Arts in upstate Connecticut. “Might be worth lookin’ into, if you’re headed east,” he’d advised. “Sounds like some nasty stuff is goin’ on. This thing put three kids in the hospital just this past week.” 

So, after a two-day drive, the limestone cliffs and rolling Appalachian hills gave way to sandy forests and humid brine-smelling beaches, and the Winchesters found themselves on the east coast, a land rife with rich history and evil colonial spirits begging to be ganked. Not that Andrew McGilson, the Ph.D. student who’d offed himself three months ago after a shredding review from his dissertation supervisor and now allegedly was the restless spirit haunting the Jacob Feinstrom graduate wing of the campus library, was a 200-year-old colonist, but still. 

Going undercover at Sam’s alma mater would have made this case much more difficult, to be sure. But Dean – already beaming at the notion of masquerading as “a coupla college geeks” for a few weeks, thinking the role a surefire ticket to keggers and sorority girls ( _this isn’t_ Animal House _, Dean, real-life college isn’t like that_ ) – had gracefully stepped up to the plate and ensured that Sam had his hands plenty full with not only home-base case research and meet-and-greet interrogation sessions at several grad seminars, but with Dean’s antics as well. 

He’d come back to their subleased apartment that morning after dropping in on a creative writing workshop for English Lit thesis students to find Dean in the bathroom, hovering over the toilet and vomiting his absolute guts out with wrenching alacrity. Sam had rolled his eyes and then smiled and asked how his kegstands went, asked if college was the bitchin’ time it was all cracked up to be, asked if Dean wanted a greasy pork sandwich in a dirty ashtray, and then had cackled and walked away, digging his laptop out of his bag and bidding Dean a fun hangover. 

After the third round of horrendous and increasingly strained vomiting, however, Sam had found it hard to ignore his brother’s distress, so he’d taken a break from researching the local online archives to go offer Dean assistance. Turns out, Dean hadn’t partied hard at all last night – he’d had a few beers, asked a few questions about the haunted library, made out with this chick, and left, because four dudes started spewing and three more looked close to it, apparently there was a stomach bug going around Alpha Phi Sig and half of Fratville had caught it, so “he didn’t wanna be next, Sam, wasn’t worth it”. 

Sam had rubbed his back sympathetically and cringed and said maybe he’d been too late on that one. Dean had moaned and prayed for death and asked Sam to get him orange Gatorade. Sam shut his laptop and grabbed his coat, figuring he owed his poor brother that much after the _Weird Science_ joke. 

The Gatorade was cold in the crook of his arm, and the bottle was slippery from condensation. Huffing an irritated sigh, blowing his bangs out of his face (needed another haircut soon, damn, he thought), Sam shifted again and readjusted his burdens – ice-cold Gatorade, generic pink bismuth (in chewable tablet form, because he knew Dean would staunchly refuse to swallow the chalky liquid), plain saltines, and a few cans of tomato vegetable soup, for when the hurling stopped and he was ready to take sustenance once more. 

“Twenty-four ninety-five,” chirped the cashier, a short, cute, pimply redhead with frizzy hair. 

Sam blinked, offered her a sheepish smile in apology for his reverie, then furrowed his brow and recognized her. “Hey, you’re in my creative writing class. Third row, right? You’re the one who wrote the report on eighteenth-century selkie sightings in the British Isles. It was really good.”

She blushed, taken aback. “Y-yeah.” Flustered, trying to hide her pleased grin at his recognition, she quickly counted out Sam’s change and looked back up at him, squaring her round jaw. “I’m Amy. Denton. I uh. I really um, liked your analysis of our last passage. The one on Oscar Wilde.”

Sam remembered more now, thinking he could recall seeing her perusing the rare books section in the graduate studies’ wing of the library, where the cold spots bloomed and projectile books were launched in the wee hours. “Yeah,” he smiled, wider, a glittering anglerfish enticing its prey. “He’s one of my favorites. But I’m really more into folklore, myself. How about you?”

The older lady standing in line behind Sam – an adjunct professor with a carpal tunnel brace and cat-eye glasses – cleared her throat impatiently, shifting her cumbersome weight between sensibly-shoed feet. Sam’s smile tightened; he wished the old bat would back up a little so he didn’t have to smell her sundried tomato and Aspercreme salad. 

Amy shrugged, blushing deeply. “Oh, I um…well, my grandparents live in Derry, Ireland, so I kinda grew up hearing old folk tales and legends. Passed down through generations, y’know?” She huffed a self-conscious little giggle and handed Sam his bag of supplies. “It’s stupid, I know, but…myths are based on some facet of truth, right? I was raised to think so, at least."

Bingo, Sam thought. Heedless of the adjunct professor’s increasingly agitated throat-clearing, he nodded thoughtfully and prepared to seal the deal. “So, you’ve heard the urban legends around here, then? About the ghost of the Ph.D. student who still haunts the library?” 

“Yeah! I mean,” she cleared her throat, hastily covering her enthusiasm. “Everyone has. Lots of people say they feel cold spots, and a friend of mine – she’s doing her thesis on environmental conservation right now – even said she saw him one night after hours.” Her voice lowered, and she leaned conspiratorially across the counter, emboldened by excitement. “She said he walked through the bookshelf, turned and stared right at her, and it felt like an icy fist ‘grabbed her heart and squeezed’. She said it was like she couldn’t breathe, and terror shot through her veins like she’d never felt before, and—and she was so cold, like she’d never be warm again.”

Sam was intrigued, by Amy’s storytelling skills if nothing else. “Yeah? Did she say what happened afterwards?”

“Excuse me,” interrupted the rotund bespectacled lady behind Sam, “I have a class to teach in fifteen minutes.”

Amy’s blush returned at the professor’s agitation, and Sam chuckled, willing to accept the cliffhanger. He’d get the rest of the story in time. 

“Tell you what, Amy,” he acquiesced, intentionally throwing in a smile after her name, unable to help playing on the girl’s obvious crush. “I’d love to hear the rest of that story sometime. Maybe over a coffee tomorrow before class?”

Amy squealed with joy before she could stop herself, and then clapped a mortified hand over her mouth. Sam actually chuckled at her lack of containment, his answering smile real this time. “I’ll take that as a yes?”

“Y…yes! Absolutely. Um. I just—” Flustered, Amy bumped into her register and the drawer swung open, and she fumbled to close it again with a quiet curse, reaching up to adjust her glasses. “I have to, um, finish a lab report for bio, and then I’ll meet you at the cafeteria before class tomorrow? By Wallsworth Hall?”

Sam scooped up his grocery bag and flashed a final winning smile. “Wallsworth it is. See ya then, Amy.” He barely had time to turn and walk away before the cranky professor behind him practically shoulder-checked him in her haste to waddle forward. Amy giggled and waved. 

“Bye, Sam,” she breathed, practically glowing, standing on tiptoes to yell beyond the vicinity of the large woman in line. “Oh! I hope you feel better! Ginger ale is good for upset stomachs!”

It took a moment before Sam realized. “Oh, it’s for my brother.” He lifted the bag for emphasis. “He’s not doing so hot. But I’ll pass it on.” 

-

Grey clouds covered the sky as Sam made the trek across campus on foot, carrying the plastic CVS shopping bag and his backpack and squinting up at the sky, looking for rain, swearing he felt a drop and hoping he hadn’t. 

At least he’d made some progress on the case. Amy Denton seemed to have more inside scoop on the late Andrew McGilson than anyone else he’d spoken with, and Sam found himself actually looking forward to their coffee meeting tomorrow morning, if for that cinnamon honey latte special at Wallsworth Café before anything else. 

An ominous roll of thunder heralded his arrival at their temporary lodgings – the graduate subset of the Feinstrom Studio Student Housing Complex ( apparently ol’ Jake had had considerable money and influence here on campus before his own demise in 1998) – and Sam just barely made it through the door before rain started to pelt the ground. 

“Dean?” He ventured, hoping Dean was sleeping rather than vomiting again, because he really hated the thought of having to drag his brother to the campus clinic for a rehydration drip. “’m back. I got the good stuff.”

The TV was still on, remote and his laptop and Busty Asian Beauties magazine spread out on the coffee table. On the couch (or, rather, in the couch) lay Dean, nestled in his homemade blanket-nest with a trash can tucked close by. Weakly, he lifted his chin to look up at Sam’s approach and croaked, “Good stuff?” 

Sam smiled sadly, reaching into the bag and holding aloft the Gatorade. “Think you can drink some? I’ll even get a glass with ice if you want.” 

Dean closed his eyes, cracked lips parting in a soft sigh, as if that notion sounded heavenly. “Mm. Full service.” Then he settled back into his nest, as if the effort of grunting that small sentence had irreparably exhausted him. Which, if the efforts he had expended during his five hours of vomiting earlier were any indication by which to go, would probably not have been an outlandish diagnosis. 

“ _In other news_ ,” intoned the TV news anchor, “ _as the Norovirus-13 disease continues to spread locally, community health officials are implementing quarantine measures in hospitals and on college campuses, and are urging people to avoid close contact and to follow CDC guidelines on proper handwashing in this critical stage of the outbreak._ ” 

“Wow,” Sam commented when he returned into the living room, glass in hand, stopping to watch the television. “So this thing’s really goin’ around, huh? No wonder you picked it up so fast at that frat party.”

“Mm.” Dean shifted uneasily, propping himself up on his elbow and reaching for the glass of sports drank. Tentatively, he took a sip, then sighed with relief at the blessed sweet coolness. “Thanks, Sam.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sam took a seat at the end of the couch, nonchalantly pushing Dean’s feet out of the way. “Hey, so the cashier at CVS is in my English Lit class, and she says her friend actually saw Andrew’s ghost in the library. Said he glared at her and it felt like a, a ‘cold fist was squeezing her heart’”. 

Dean nodded, absentmindedly, brow furrowing like he was concentrating on something. He stared dully ahead, lips pursing, holding the iced-down glass of Gatorade with both hands. Sam eyed him warily. “You okay?”

“Ngh,” he answered, leaning forward to set the glass on the coffee table. “Yeah. ‘m listening. Just feel like crap.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Sam rested a hand on Dean’s blanket-covered leg in solidarity. 

The gesture seemed to lend Dean strength, if not to squirm and scoff with disgust at the contact. “Got some work done last night, too, before th’ hurling began,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat, trying for professionalism. “Dude named Travis Fiston – everybody called him ‘Fist-In’– said a buddy’a his worked part-time as a janitor in the grad library last semester, when Andrew first killed himself, and says he took a flying encyclopedia to the dome one night. Laid him out for two days, concussion and everything. Nobody believed his story, and he quit a week afterwards. Lost his work-study scholarship and everything. Poor guy.”

Sam stared, impressed at Dean’s current ability to articulate. “Damn, that sucks. Well, I set up a meeting with Amy – that’s the cashier’s name – tomorrow at Wallsworth cafeteria.”

Dean actually perked up a little, raising his head and lifting an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? Like a date?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “No, Dean, like a lead. A coffee and hopefully the rest of her friend’s story. Maybe we can figure out what times Andrew likes to haunt the place, see if we can’t set up a good old-fashioned stakeout soon.” 

“Yeah.” Dean burrowed back into his pillow, visibly deflating now that the moment was ruined. “Find out where they put the body, too.” 

Sam nodded, and they sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the news and listening to thunder rumble. Rain spattered the windows, and the grey clouds turned the drizzly Connecticut morning into something out of a story, all fog and fables, mist rolling in to obscure looming apartment buildings and the comparably tiny forms of errant students scurrying for shelter on the lawns below, caught out in the elements unprepared. 

Then, Dean shifted and groaned, blanket falling away from his shoulders as he rolled onto his side in preparation. “’s not sittin’ well,” he grunted, and reached down for the trash can on the floor. Before Sam could do anything, Dean was abruptly throwing up what little fluids he’d managed to drink, the vein at his temple popping with effort. 

“Whoa, hey,” Sam managed after a moment of watching in transfixed disgust, leaning forward and reaching out to lay a supportive hand on his brother’s straining back. “Hey, I gotcha. It’s okay.” He rubbed steadying circles on Dean’s back, feeling the damp cotton of his T-shirt sticking to his skin. 

The noise of the TV faded into the distance, and Dean being sick was now the sharply clear focal point. There wasn’t much at all on his stomach, but still he continued to retch, each dry-heave punctuated by a horrible cough. Sam winced, feeling his own stomach contract in sympathy. He _knew_ how much that fucking sucked, but there wasn’t much he could do at the moment, so he just kept rubbing Dean’s back, reaching out his other hand to help hold the trash can in place when Dean’s hands started to tremble and he began to gasp with painful breaths, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks. 

“God,” he panted, lips slick and shining with saliva. “Ss—this sucks—”

“I know, I know,” Sam murmured. “Just breathe. You’re all empty. ‘S okay, Dean.”

Finally, the dry-heaves seemed to abate. Still panting, tears drying on his face, Dean collapsed on his left side, trash can dangling limply in his grasp. Carefully, Sam resumed lowering it down to the floor, initiating cleanup processes. “Okay,” he coached, resting a firm but gentle hand on Dean’s trembling shoulder. “I’m gonna get you some water. Be right back.” 

“Saaam,” groaned Dean, eyes screwing shut at the notion of drinking tap water. He reminded Sam of E.T. dying on the bathroom floor, and abruptly Sam fought the twin urges to laugh and cry. 

“Not to drink, not yet,” he promised, holding up a hand placatingly. “Just to rinse. How about a washcloth?”

After a moment’s deliberation, Dean nodded wordlessly, a little soft moan tailing the end of his quiet panting. 

If this kept up much longer, the ol’ stomach flu was gonna take Dean out before their poltergeist even got a chance. 


End file.
